


Must We Burn It All

by Oodles



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-05 05:16:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11006766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oodles/pseuds/Oodles
Summary: To form an alliance or run ... ?





	Must We Burn It All

_ This town is long abandoned.  _

_ Hunters not wanted here. _

 

The hunter clutches his side. He has no more blood. There is a pressure in his eyes, a strange throbbing pain that makes it feel as though there is a beast clinging to his skull. That damn wolf almost bested him, and the effort it takes not to transform is unbearable. He is consumed by fire. It eats away at his veins. 

He hobbles down the stairs, leaving a trail of blood. What is this ladder? Why is the floor destroyed? He doesn’t have time to think or care. He descends the ladder anyway, nearly falling off halfway down. The room is dark and he fumbles through until he is leaning on a wooden door. It creaks under his weight. He shoves against it harder. Light spills through the cracks. It feels like he hasn’t seen light in ages. 

When the doors give, he collapses onto a set of stone steps, his gun flying out of his hands. Movement flashes around him. He grabs at his saw spear, but he is too weak to do anything. 

These beasts are different from what he’s seen before. They are almost… human. Not like the villagers, but not as far gone as others he’s seen. They swarm closer. He thinks this is where he’ll die. 

“You shouldn’t have come here,” a voice speaks from behind him. 

The hunter’s wild eyes search for the source. 

There is a man perched on the building above him. His clothes are singed and worn. He aims a strange weapon right at the hunter’s head. 

“The hunt ends here.”

He knows now this is where he will die. If it's not the beasts that get him, it’ll be this man. 

The beasts draw closer, but he does not hear the screeching or the shouting he has grown used to in Yharnam. The signal of an attack. 

No, these beasts merely sniff at him. He thinks he might have the strength to take one or two out, but then that will leave him with the man above, and there is no way he can do anything about that, not with that strange weapon he has. 

He closes his eyes. He is too far gone for the dream now. 

“Goodnight,” he says to no one. 

Footsteps. He pries his eyes open to see the beasts wandering back into the smoky ruins of the city. 

There is a thump beside him. Something hits him in the stomach. The man is nudging the hunter onto his back. He eyes the hunter up. 

“The beasts don’t seem to mind you,” he says, head tilted. “What have you done to yourself?”

The world is turning black. The hunter tries to speak, but all he can do is open his mouth and struggle to breathe.

The man kneels down and grips the hunter’s jaw in his gloved hand. His face is all the hunter can see. The man takes a knife from his belt and slices his hand. He puts it to the hunter’s mouth. 

The blood is divine. 

Life sparks in the hunter’s body and he grabs the man’s hand, drinking as much and as fast as he can. The man snaps his hand back. 

“That’s enough,” he says. “I’ve only so much to give.”

The hunter thinks about raising his weapon, but refrains. 

“Why did you do that?” he asks.

The man doesn’t answer, but walks to the doors that the hunter pried open and shuts them again. A beast begins inching closer. The man turns and fires a single shot at it, though it strikes the pavement. The beast goes scurrying away. 

“Poor shot,” the hunter says, getting to his feet. He looks to where he dropped his gun, and realizes the man has already taken it off the ground. 

“I wasn’t aiming to kill,” he says. He eyes up the hunter’s old pistol. “Such a shame to see a gun in unappreciative hands. And a lackluster one at that.”

He stares down the barrel at the hunter. “I can promise you shelter if you promise not to harm my beasts.”

The hunter’s hand itches for his saw spear, but that would be stupid with the sights of his own pistol on him. 

“Why did you give me blood?” he asks instead. 

“I protect these beasts,” the man says. “And the beasts don’t lie. If you’re not one of them, you’re well on your way. It’s not my right to take your life, unless you wish to do harm to those down here.”

“You  _ protect _ beasts?” the hunter sneers. “Do you call yourself a man?”

“My name is Djura,” he says. “I bet you think yourself the part of a proud hunter. A dreamer, yes?”

The hunter cannot hide the truth. Djura lifts his head. “Ah. No more dreams for you then. That is why the beasts tolerate you. You’ve dipped into their supply, no doubt. Which, of course, means that my blood will only suffice for so long. So again, I say– I can offer you shelter, so long as you leave the beasts alone.”

The hunter straightens up. He turns to see a great ruined city, still burning, and the distant sounds of wild beasts, but something is missing. Chaos.

“You’re mad,” he says to Djura. “This is a madman’s quest.”

Djura holds the pistol out to the hunter. “I’ll take that as a grateful acceptance of my offer. Follow close behind me.”

The hunter takes the pistol, briefly considers turning it on Djura, and then sticks it in his belt. Djura hurries off towards a low rooftop. The hunter goes after him. What else is he to do? No blood, nothing but beasts, and now he is turning into one of them. 

Djura leads him on a long jaunt. The little blood he’s had barely keeps him going as they ascend the longest ladder up the side of a massive broken clock tower. Finally, Djura reaches the top and disappears over the edge. The hunter pulls himself up, wanting to collapse again, and finds a hulking machine anchored to the edge of the platform. Djura is staring through it. 

“What the hell is that?” the hunter asks, breathing hard. 

“Ever heard of the Powder Kegs?” Djura asks. 

The hunter sits on the ground, keeping his distance from the madman. There is an ever-present smell of fire. 

“Those lunatics? The ones banned from the Healing Church?” The hunter eyes him up again, and realizes his mistake. “Dear god.”

“No god will help you here. There’s only beasts left in Old Yharnam.”

“Beasts and you,” the hunter adds. 

Djura stands and turns to the hunter. 

“What possessed you to come down here? The Healing Church set this place to flame for a reason.” 

Djura takes a few steps closer and the hunter’s hand twitches to his side. 

“And who do you think they contracted to burn this city to the ground? Whose materials did they use? Whose bodies were donated?” 

The hunter can only see one of the mad Djura’s eyes, and he does not like what he sees. Yet, he is still alive. 

“My people burned,” Djura says. “And now, they are left to beasthood. I will not watch another die. We are sealed from the outside world, so long as the doors remains shut.”

The hunter eyes Djura’s weapon, not the one attached to the roof, but the one attached to his arm. The one that could quite easily erase him in a moment, if this man loses his grip. 

“I won’t open your doors,” the hunter says quietly. “I just need to heal, and then I will be gone.”

Djura stares him down for a moment. Then he backs off. “Of course. Then get your rest.”

“How do I know you won’t kill me while I sleep?” the hunter asks. 

Djura scoffs. “You’re already done for. I take no pleasure in hastening the process.”

He goes back to his weapon, scanning the streets below. The hunter does not think he could possibly relax, until he is waking up again on the top of the clock tower. Djura rests beside his contraption, looking as though he fell asleep while working on it. 

The hunter weighs his options. Kill the man, steal his blood and weapons. Leave now and take his chances back in Central Yharnam with no supplies. Sneak away, kill a few beasts down here, and hope for materials and blood. Or stay, and see how this man lives. 

The sun eases some of the pressure in the hunter’s head. Djura let him sleep through the night. It would be rude to disturb him now. 

The hunter walks to the edge of the clock tower, only to look down and be overcome with nausea. He stumbles back from the ledge. His heart pounds. 

“Not a fan of heights?” 

The hunter startles at Djura’s voice. 

“You came to an odd place then,” he goes on. 

The hunter grits his teeth. “Not too many options left if you need blood ministration.”

“You didn’t stop to think that maybe Yharnam is the reason all the blood’s gone bad?”

The hunter takes a deep breath. “I know that now.”

“Now that it’s too late,” Djura says. He tilts his head. The one uncovered eye looks a bit less mad in the light. “I need to go on a run. Leave or stay, it’s no matter to me. Just don’t hurt anyone.”

Djura stands and brushes off his clothes. He attaches the great weapon to his arm and slings a bag over his shoulder, descending the ladder without comment. The hunter stays still, listening until Djura’s sounds fade into the distance. Beasts begin screaming, but not in pain. The hunter listens closely. It’s almost as if he can glean some kind of meaning from those strange voices. He cannot understand what they’re saying, but it raises some kind of feeling in his chest. 

The transformation is farther along than he thought. 

The hunter spends the next while trying to get himself to climb the ladder. All he can see is the distance to the ground and he stops, scrambling away from it. His breathing becomes more erratic. He knows all he needs to subsist is blood, but now all he has left is Djura, whenever he returns. If he returns. Perhaps it was his goal to leave the hunter stranded up here. He must have known how beasts operate. Something about that blood-induced madness that makes heights harder to deal with. How did he even make it up here in the first place? He was barely conscious, that’s how. He would have followed the scent of Djura’s blood anywhere at that point. 

The sound of screams precedes Djura’s return. The hunter listens to them grow and then recede. Djura makes it up the ladder quickly. He looks surprised to see the hunter still there. 

“Ah, so you do have some wits left in you,” he says. “The beasts have given this place a wide berth, though. They must smell you. For that, you’re welcome to stay.”

The hunter says nothing. 

Djura reaches into his bag. “The beasts here carry a poison in them. Be careful not to get scratched.”

“The beasts are poisoned?” the hunter can’t help but ask. “How does that happen?”

Djura opens a box and removes small pale tablets, putting them into a satchel at his waist. “The Healing Church will have you think that it came from ashen blood.”

“And what will you have me think?” the hunter asks, folding his arms. 

Djura smiles. “How did you get into hunting?”

“I had to,” the hunter says. “End of story.”

“Right,” Djura says. “Do you have a name?”

The hunter turns away. “If I did, it’s long gone now.”

“You don’t remember your own name,” Djura says. “You came here for blood ministration, and now you’re a wandering hunter, killing beasts without question.”

The hunter stares at Djura. “I see your point. But why would the Church want the beasts killed?”

“It was their mistake,” Djura says. “Now they seek to erase it entirely.”

“And you wish to stop them?” the hunter asks. 

Djura shakes his head. “I only wish to bring peace to this burned city.”

The hunter stares out towards the horizon. “What will you do when the hunt is well on?”

“My best,” Djura says. “As I always have.”

“You can’t keep doing this forever,” the hunter says. 

Djura turns towards the doors of Old Yharnam. “And you will not always be human, but here we are, trying to survive.”

There is a distant howl. The hunter grabs at his head. The beasts are growing restless. As is he. 

“If you turn, I will not kill you,” Djura says. “Even though you may lose your mind, you will always have been a human.”

The hunter feels his blood rising up. The moon calls to him. It asks him to let go of humanity. The pressure builds. He lets out a guttural moan. 

Djura turns to him. The hunter knows he doesn’t have much time. If he stays, he will kill Djura, or Djura will kill him in self defense. 

He forces himself up, and staggers to the ladder. 

“Wait,” Djura calls but the hunter is already over the side, focusing on each rung, counting them off, until his feet are on the ground again. He huddles at the base of the ladder, knowing he won’t dare climb it again if he turns.  

The world starts to shift. His vision goes strange, and his hearing picks up new sounds. He can smell blood around him, but more than ever, he smells it above him. The only human in the city, one he’s tasted already. He turns his gaze up the ladder. Djura is climbing down. The human in him wants to scream at him not to be an idiot. Djura stops a few feet above him, hooks his arm through the rung and draws a knife. The beast sees the blade and feels the urge to attack. The human tries to make peace with the fact that Djura may be the one to end his life. 

Djura slices his own wrist. He holds it out over the hunter and the beast. The beast turns his head and opens his mouth. The blood rains down and spatters over his face. He licks up every drop. Such sweet relief. 

The pounding in his temples subsides. His vision clears. He looks to Djura. 

“I cannot allow a beast to stay with me,” Djura says. “But a man is welcome.”

He climbs the ladder again. The hunter lets out a shuddering sigh. He waits a while for the bloodlust to clear and the shaking to stop before he dares to rejoin Djura atop the clock tower. He stays in a corner where there is still wall to shield him from the sight of the drop. He falls asleep sitting up, eyes on Djura. 

When he wakes, it is to Djura cursing and readying his weapon. 

“What?” the hunter asks, still in a bit of a fog. 

“A hunter,” Djura says. “I have to stop her.”

“What of that?” the hunter asks, gesturing to the mounted contraption. 

“It’s not ready yet,” Djura says. “I’ll have to deal with her myself.”

“I’ll go with you,” the hunter says. 

Djura doesn’t stop, but heads for the ladder. “Just don’t get in the way.”

They take the direct route to the doors. The beasts at first advance on Djura, but when they take notice of the hunter, they back off. Djura gives the hunter an appraising look, but does not speak. They find the beast hunter in a small room, with her axe buried in the stomach of a creature. Djura walks forward to meet her, but the hunter hangs back in the shadows.

“I’ll ask you to stop hurting the beasts,” Djura says. “There is no need to hunt down here.”

The hunter raises her eyebrows. “A beast is a beast,” she says. She is covered in blood. The smell is a little intoxicating. “And one who protects them is surely as mindless as they are.”

She advances on Djura, and Djura raises his gun. She dodges left, very fast, and goes to strike. Djura is faster than the hunter expected, spinning and getting a slice on her from the massive knife on his arm. But she rolls and aims her gun at his back. 

The hunter moves, lunging, burying his spear into the woman’s back. She goes limp. Djura turns and sees what he’s done. The hunter shakes her off his weapon and she falls to the floor. Her blood flows. The hunter can’t look away. 

Djura turns his back. “Go on. You need it. Stave off your beast.”

The hunter doesn’t need any more permission. He falls to his knees and drinks in her blood. Djura stands guard, but his head tilts just so, enough to watch the hunter feed.

When he has his fill, they head back to the clock tower in silence. 

The next time Djura says he has to go out, he stops and then invites the hunter along. 

“There’s something I want you to see.”

The hunter doesn’t ask, he just goes. 

“Keep to the shadows,” Djura says. “Even with your scent, some of the beasts out here may not care.”

The hunter makes sure to follow exactly as Djura steps. They traverse a series of ladders together, heading deeper, past a chapel ripe with the stench of beasts. Outside, there is a gathering of the small creatures. One of them turns to Djura. It gets to its feet, baring its teeth. The hunter steps in front of Djura, taking the man’s knife from his belt and slicing into his own flesh to draw blood. If there is one thing he knows the beasts recognize, it’s blood. He can smell their own rotten bodies strongly enough. 

The beast backs down. Djura and the hunter continue. 

When they reach a much darker street, Djura removes a bottle from his bag and steps quietly. 

A wolf rounds the corner. The hunter suppresses his instinct to attack and watches Djura. He throws the bottle down an alleyway. The glass shatters and a smell fills the air. Divine blood. The hunter leans toward it, but Djura takes his arm and leads him away. They skirt around the building as the wolf dashes for the scent, distracted. 

They finally make it to a large, perhaps once beautiful, church. Djura and the hunter approach the entrance. Torchlight spills from it. 

“Do you see?” Djura asks. 

The hunter smells. There is a beast in there, a large one, on all fours before a great altar. 

“The blood-starved beast,” Djura says. “She was once a blood saint. The Healing Church pumped her full of blood and told her it would cure. Instead, they stood back and watched a human turn into this.”

“A witless beast,” the hunter says. 

“No,” Djura says. “Not witless. The poor bastard stays here in the church for a reason. She thinks the healing church members will still come and free her. Even the other beasts think her holy. She wasn’t the only one created, but she’s the only one left alive. She struggles for blood so much, she tore herself apart trying to drink her own.”

“Is that… what I’ll become?” the hunter asks. 

“I don’t know,” Djura admits. “But if you wish to retain your humanity, I will help you as best as I can.”

The hunter takes a step back. “Why have I earned your kindness?” 

“You’ve obeyed my rules so far, and you saved my life when it came to that hunter. You know, it used to be common practice for hunters to work together. Perhaps we can help each other.”

Djura holds out his hand. 

The hunter takes it. 

“Together then,” Djura says. 

“While I can,” the hunter answers.

They fall into a routine. Djura works on his contraption, given the inventive name of  _ machine gun _ and the hunter gathers materials for him, plundering the houses nearby, as he is able to move about unbothered for the most part. 

When the hunters come, they confront them together.

Djura lets him drink from the unfortunate ones and leaves the bodies for the beasts. 

They manage. 

The two of them go out to stop a hunter one day, and he sneaks up on Djura, a throwing knife just barely missing Djura’s eye. 

Djura’s hunter goes after him with no restraint, pinning him down. He feels the beast rearing up inside him. There is an ache in his joints, begging for release. 

“Wait,” Djura calls, stopping him from killing the man. “We haven’t made our offer.”

“Offer?” the stranger asks. 

“We will let you leave here alive if you close those doors and never look back.”

He stares between Djura and his hunter. 

“There is nothing for you here but death,” Djura assures him. “Be the wiser one. Forget this place.”

The hunter takes a breath and nods. 

Djura’s hunter carefully stands. The stranger leaves with a nod at Djura and a wary glance at his hunter. The doors shut behind him. They head back to the tower. When Djura sets his weapon down, he sighs. 

“You know I prefer sparing them,” Djura says. 

The hunter’s gaze is drawn to Djura’s cheek. “You’ve been cut.”

Djura touches the line on his face and looks at his red stained fingers. The hunter holds his breath. Djura meets his gaze. 

“It’s okay,” Djura says. “Just don’t take too much.”

The hunter approaches him slowly. “Are you sure?”

“How long has it been? Three days? Four? It can’t be easy.”

The hunter touches Djura’s face and tilts Djura’s head back. The sweet smell of blood fills his nose and throat. The pressure in his eyes is back. It’s in his jaw, pushing on his gums, forcing his teeth into something sharper. All he can see is the red dripping down Djura’s face. He opens his mouth. The hunter slowly licks the trail of blood, finally settling his mouth over the wound. The taste is so pure and rich coming straight from a beating heart. The hunter thinks about biting into Djura, just to get more. He grips the man’s shoulders. 

Djura puts a hand on the back of the hunter’s head. “Easy.”

The hunter remembers himself. He pulls back, wiping his lips. “I’m sorry.”

Djura touches his wound. “It’s alright. I don’t envy your position.”

“I don’t deserve your help,” the hunter says. 

“It’s not a free meal,” Djura says. “You aid me as well.”

“Right,” the hunter says. 

Djura’s mouth curves into a smile. “You still think I’m mad?”

“You are,” the hunter says. 

“To each his own, right?” Djura asks. 

The hunter takes his place in the corner of the clock tower. He pulls his hood up. “Wake me when you need me.”

Three days pass without a stranger. The hunter grows volatile and jumpy. 

“When will we get another?” he growls to Djura one night. Djura kneels in front of his precious machine gun, and the hunter sits cross legged beside him. “Perhaps I should go to the surface.”

“No,” Djura says. “I don’t want you inviting trouble down here. Besides, their affairs are of no interest to us. Leave them to destroy themselves.”

“And what of me?” the hunter snaps. “Shall I destroy myself as well?”

Djura calmly holds his arm out to the hunter. “Take mine and be silent for a moment. I can’t think with your grumbling.”

The hunter grits his teeth. “I can’t keep taking from you.”

“Why not?” Djura asks. 

“Because,” the hunter avoids Djura’s gaze. “It’s become too… good.”

Djura’s eyebrow quirks up. “Good?”

“It’s all I can smell sometimes,” the hunter admits. 

“Well if you don’t take it, you’ll turn and then I’ll have to push you off this clock tower or you’ll start a rampage above ground, neither of which I’d like to deal with. I can handle myself when you’re human. I don’t want to see you as a beast. I’ve grown used to having backup.”

The hunter remains quiet. Djura pulls up his sleeve. The hunter takes Djura’s wrist in his hands. With a knife, he quickly slashes a line across Djura’s arm and fits his mouth to it. He drinks deep. Djura doesn’t say anything, even as the hunter knows he’s going too far. But he can’t help it. The man’s blood is like wine. Though it clears the thoughts of rending flesh, it clouds his mind in another way. 

“Hunter,” Djura speaks slow.

The hunter lifts his face, unquestioning. The only thought in his mind is to share this taste with someone else. He presses his bloodied mouth to Djura’s. As soon as he makes contact, his mind comes reeling back. What is he doing?  

Djura grips the front of the hunter’s shirt. The hunter is expecting a shove away, perhaps straight off the clock tower, but Djura pulls him closer. The hunter presses his full weight into Djura, sending him on his back. All thoughts of beasthood vanish, replaced by a different hunger. One he hasn’t settled in ages.

Apparently, neither has Djura. He lets the hunter at his chest. The madman allows small wounds across his body for the hunter to lick from. Every taste of skin and blood pushes him farther back into his own humanity. He thinks not of killing, but of feeling every inch of the man below him. 

Djura lets him in. 

The hunter takes his time. He pins the man to the edge of the clock tower and makes up for the damage he did. 

When they are tangled and exhausted, Djura asks him, “Does it help?”

“Yes,” the hunter breathes into his hair. 

“Good.”

 

The madman and his hunter finish the gun. 

“I’ll fight from the ground,” the hunter tells him. “You ward them off from up here, and I’ll catch the dregs as they come through.”

“So.” Djura puts a hand on his shoulder. “Are you ready for the long night?”

His hunter smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey friends! I have very strong opinions on Djura and his ally (the hunter fought at the base of his ladder), as well as literally everyone else in that game. Feel free to come and talk to me about them!   
> @oodleswrites


End file.
